The Laura Cardinal Novels (72 page)

It was hard not to roll her eyes. It wasn’t that she didn’t agree with him on some things, but it seemed as if he was using them as a justification for his own behavior. She noticed that for all his willingness to come clean, he had told them precious little about the actual plot to steal a truck from Nevada Test Site. Interviewing Jack Taylor was like wading through quicksand.

“Kellee was such a good little girl. Her mom died when she was five. I raised her by myself for five years—she was a real daddy’s girl. When Megumi and I started seeing each other, she didn’t sulk. We became a perfect little family. And now I’ve ruined it all.” His voice broke.

When Jon patiently brought him back to the subject at hand, Jack managed to slip away yet again. His first wife dying of breast cancer, his little girl getting the brain tumor, what it was like to watch your daughter get sick and nearly die …

“It was fate,” he said. “She was meant to be taken from us, and she was.” More tears. His hands, now cuffed in front, dangling uselessly between his legs. “My sweet little girl. She was ill-fated from the very beginning.”

Jon asked, “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

“Why would I know?” He looked horrified. “It can’t have anything to do with this. I kept her out of this. She didn’t know—”

Jon Service leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Dan Yates knew about the arson at Jimmy Davis Ford. If you think there could be a link, I need to know.”

Taylor leaned away, confused. Shook his head. “No way. I would never expose either of my two girls to this.” He shrugged, added—almost serenely—“It was fate. She was meant to be taken from me.”

Laura wanted to hit him.

Carefully bringing him back from each evasion, Jon Service took him through the plot with skill and patience. Eliciting from Jack Taylor how Bobby Burdette had been hired to help fix up some of the older cabins on the property, how they’d have a few beers together afterwards. How Jack told Bobby about his past as the head of the Earth Warriors in the sixties, under his real name, Jack Traywick. It was on those beery nights they hatched the plot to take a truck carrying nuclear waste from the NTS facility, but only to expose the real dangers—a government run amok.

“Homeland Security,” Jack Taylor said contemptuously. “What a joke. If you knew half of what I know …”

Warming to his subject.

The plan was to take the truck to Lake Mohave on the Colorado River and leave it in the parking lot at Cottonwood Cove. “That would throw a scare into anybody. You know the Colorado provides water for three states? Imagine if something happened to that truck and it got into the water, think about that.” Smug.

Laura had heard that with plutonium, the real danger was if it were released into the air. At least that was what she’d heard on the TV show
Modern Marvels
.

Laura could see he was starting to enjoy himself, elaborating on his story, throwing around words like “Trilateral Commission” and an older one, “the military-industrial complex.”

“Laughlin’s just down river. Can you imagine the panic that would cause? Maybe the Stepford Americans will finally catch on, see what their government is doing to them.”

A couple of anonymous calls to the media, and the truth would be known.

Jon said, “Is Glenn Traywick your brother?”

Jack Taylor didn’t answer.

“Is Glenn Traywick involved?”

But on this issue, Jack Taylor would not be moved. “I want my lawyer now,” he said serenely.

What Laura wanted was to wipe that supercilious smile off his face. She regretted there were laws against police brutality.

They walked him back to the car. Behind them, Megumi stood in the parking lot, still in her floppy hat. Her whole world crumbling around her.

But Laura noticed she did not come up to talk to her husband. Instead, Jack Taylor’s wife gave them a small wave and walked straight-backed up the steps into the general store. Holding the hurt to herself.

As they approached the sheriff’s vehicle, Jack Taylor stopped and stared at the deep blue sky above them, inhaling the fresh mountain air. “There’s more you should know.”

“Yes, sir?” Laura asked.

“If I were you, I’d move fast.”

Glenn Traywick was almost to the North Las Vegas airport when he punched in the number for Michelle’s work phone. He’d already tried her home and her cell with no luck.

“Trecor Business Equipment, may I help you?” It was Michelle, her voice crisp and professional.

“I thought you’d be home by now.”

“Don’t worry, be happy. I’m all packed. Everything I need is in the back of the car.”

“What about the moving van?”

“Been and gone”

He checked his watch. “I should be in Flag by eleven thirty. You know where to go?”

“Like, you never took me flying before,” she said in her best imitation of a Valley girl.

He ignored that. Sometimes Michelle could be maddening. “I want you to be ready to go. Just in case things go south.”

“I’ll be there, love-pucky. Don’t you worry about that.”

“You were careful not to pack too much? You put it on the scale, didn’t you? It can’t be over a hundred pounds.”

“Been there, done that.”

“I want to be in Calgary by the time this shit hits the fan.”

“Next stop, the Loon Lake Lodge. Just you, me, and the loons.”

“We’re gonna be famous.”

“Unknown, but famous.”

“That’s the plan.” He saw the sign for the airport up ahead. “I’m at VGT. I’ll see you soon.”

As he walked out to the red-white-and-blue Cessna C-175 tied down closest to the fence, Glenn decided that the pre-flight would have to be minimal—check the oil, drain the sumps, and go. He didn’t have to file a flight plan for his trip to Flagstaff, but at some point between Flag and Calgary he’d have to, by law, if he was going to get into Canadian airspace. He’d debated flying in under the radar—literally—but that meant taking a lot chances he was not ready for, flying through tight valleys at low altitudes.

He was too old for that.

He’d decided to file his flight plan at the last place he stopped for gas, hop over the border, and ditch the plane the minute he got there.

If everything went according to plan, he would be in Canada before they found the truck. Jack had promised him some lead time. Still, he knew he was cutting it close. If any one of his co-conspirators got caught and implicated him, he could be looking at Canadian Mounted Police along with Customs in Calgary.

All these thoughts whirled in his mind as he taxied out toward the runway, automatically checking his gauges and tuning to ATIS for the latest in flying conditions and runway information.

He switched to the tower frequency. “Cessna N21993 is ready for takeoff,” he said, pleased to hear that his voice was rock-steady. “Departing North, have numbers.”

By the time Mark and Dell turned off on the dirt road outside Micaville, California, Glenn Traywick had been in the air almost an hour.

As Mark and Dell drove out to the abandoned hangar, a coyote crossed in front of them fifty yards up, a rodent hanging from its jaws. It stopped and gave them a look, its shiny gold eyes bright and knowing, then trotted off.

“The trickster,” mumbled Mark.

Dell looked at him. “What’d you say?”

“Coyote. The trickster. That’s what they’re called by the Indians. Maybe it’s a bad sign.”

“Bullshit.”

But Mark was still puzzled about what happened at the port of entry. He’d assumed that the inspector would look at the manifest, then wave them through with a wink and a nod. But they’d gone over the truck for almost twenty minutes, and he’d seen the guy with the radioactive detector checking the casks.

Maybe they were just making it look good. He shouldn’t let it bother him. They got through okay, didn’t they?

The hangar was only a few hundred yards from the road, rising out of the creosote like a giant’s mailbox, sided with corrugated iron painted white. A row of many-paned windows, either opaque from the white paint or broken, ran along the sides. No sign of anyone, but that was the point. Bobby would be waiting inside with his rig.

The wind had sprung up by this time and funneled dirt from under the truck’s wheels into the ceramic blue sky. They turned into the vast clearing that faced the hangar, feeling sandblasted. Bobby Burdette’s semi truck was backed in, and Bobby had somehow managed to pull the huge sheet of army-green canvas up to the scaffold. He hopped down and directed Dell to back in. Wind whistled through the broken windowpanes.

Mark didn’t like Bobby Burdette, but he had to admit he worked fast. He had the GPS computer out of the dash of the Fleet truck and into the decoy semi in less than two minutes, start to finish.

They put stolen plates on both trucks. The canvas used to cover the canisters took some wrestling, but thanks to the scaffolding Bobby had brought along, it wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be.

Still, the casks were tall and the canvas fell short on either side. “Reminds me of Dana’s little kid,” Dell commented. “Runs around the house in a T-shirt and a bare butt.”

It was a trick to tie the canvas down, and Mark wondered if the wind, which now buffeted the hangar like an angry boxer, would get under the tarp and pull it loose.

Mark opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. It wasn’t his problem now. He and Dell were basically home free. All they had to do was continue along the route in the decoy semi to give Bobby some time, then ditch it in Seligman, where Dell had a car stashed.

After that they’d melt into the woodwork. Dell had a friend who had a “safe house” in Kingman where they could stay for a couple months until things calmed down, and then Mark would fly to Indiana using his own name.

It sounded really simple. But as his dad’s favorite poem said, “The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men gang aft agley.”

Bobby was still struggling with the last of the tie-downs when he said, “You guys better go. If anybody’s looking at TRANSCOM, you’ve been standing still almost forty minutes.”

Suited Mark. He and Dell climbed up into the semi and drove out. His last view of Bobby Burdette was in the side-view mirror, arms folded as he leaned against the big front grill of the rig, cocky as ever.

Mark and Dell were almost to the outskirts of Baker (home of the World Famous Giant Thermometer!) when they were nearly run off the road by a Corvette pulling out of a side road right across their grill.

“Did you see that motherfucker?” Dell said.

Mark watched the car dwindle quickly in the side mirror, remembering all over again his terror at the hands of Jimmy Hollings. Older, wiser now, he shook his head. “I sure wouldn’t want to be in his way when he goes off the road.”

The once-quiet Highway Patrol Division 2 office was buzzing with the hyperactivity of a beehive.

Jon Service had been on the horn since they arrived from Oak Creek Canyon, putting together the task force and setting up a roadblock west of Searchlight, Nevada. Although a helicopter had already been dispatched to take them to the staging area outside Searchlight, the flight itself would take an hour. Jon was coordinating what resources were available on the ground—a logistical nightmare involving three state jurisdictions, several federal and local agencies, and the area itself, which was in a remote desert area lacking in law enforcement resources. Already, the Department of Energy, the ATF, and the Nuclear Emergency Search Team—NEST—were organizing their own people and heading out to Searchlight.

The other resident special agent, Darcy Clayborn, had been dispatched to Jack Taylor’s house to oversee the removal of his computers and any other information he would have. She stayed in constant contact with Jordan Benteen, an FBI intelligence analyst who was working Rapid Start, a computerized clearing house which collated information coming from other sources. He was ensconced at one end of the conference table in the common room of the DPS Highway Patrol office—the yellow brick building facing Kaibab Lane—which had more room to spread out in than the detectives’ modular unit. Ranged around him were three mobile devices, two laptop computers, a laser printer, and fax. The laptops each had LCD projectors throwing their feeds up on tripod screens brought in by DPS. The table awash in paper. Two identical road maps tacked up on the bulletin board—one, marked in black, followed the regular Fleet Trucking route; the other, in red, showed the planned route of the hijacked truck.

The routes were identical until they reached Searchlight, Nevada—south from the Nevada Test Site to Baker, California; east on Interstate 15, exiting onto 164 going east to Searchlight. There, the truck was supposed to turn south on 95, which would take it to Kingman, Arizona, and Interstate 40 going east. But instead of turning south, the hijackers plan was to continue straight through Searchlight on 164 to the Colorado River and Cottonwood Cove.

Jon got a call on the speaker phone from Las Vegas Metro Police Department SWAT team offering their services. Jon told them to stand by; he’d get back to them ASAP.

Laura said, “I bet they liked that.”

“Can’t be helped. I have to clear it with the SAC.”

That would be Special Agent in Charge Damien Peltier. Laura had worked with him before.

“He’s still here? I thought he’d be running Homeland Security by now.”

“They must think
we
need him.” He sat on the edge of the desk, one leg over the other knee, swinging. “Still, I don’t want to burn any bridges—we might need Las Vegas SWAT for point control.”

“Point control. That’ll make them happy.” Laura looked at the blackboard where she had been putting up information in list form. Something about the stark white chalk against black made the information stand out for her.

Two trucks had gone out of the Nevada Test Site this morning, one of them loaded with transuranic waste headed for Carlsbad, the other carrying empty canisters to Texas A&M. TRANSCOM was tracking both of them, and so far, both of them were following the prescribed route.

Information was being collated on the drivers of both trucks and the trucking company contractor, Fleet Trucking. They had names, but little else at the moment.